Thirty-one and sixty-three - Part II

[Part I is here]

"What is it to love one's country...? Before I tell you what I think upon the subject, Mr _______: let me ask you that question. You tell me - first."

I thought for a while. It was not something I'd ever considered; taking up arms against Russia's oppression did not cause me to engage in the slightest mental activity to justify it. Yet Count ______ could see I was not thinking along his lines. "Is it like loving a woman, loving one's country?"

The fellow was bordering on the impertinent now. Yet I stammered: "Loving one's country is not the same as sharing a tender kiss with a woman..." He smiled and nodded. "You are not a married man, are you, Mr _______?

"No, Sir, I am not" I replied, attempting to keep my temper in check. "The Russians, Sir - I was forced to complete my studies first in St. Petersburg and then in Kiev - as you must know, they closed our universities. I then had to enter the Russian government administration - five years in Turkestan - and all that time I was thinking of home - the estate taken from my father by the Tsar as punishment for his part in the 1831 uprising - and when finally I returned home, I immediately enrolled with the conspirators to help plan the next uprising - Sir; like any man of my age, I dream of marriage, but first - Poland must be free!"

The Count's eyes sparkled with mischief. "So here you are now, Sir - running to Paris - and you will not marry until Poland is free?" I glared at him. He was right. "Would I be wrong to posit that you hate Russia more than you love your native realm?" he asked.

Damn the man. He had my measure. "So then, my 31 year-old friend, you are the same age I was when I rose up - along with your father and our entire generation - against the Russian yoke, in 1831. Then what? What will you be up to when you're my age, eh?" He chuckled. I did some mental arithmetic. "1895. Hah!" I replied. "By then, the world will be a utopia, and I will be a happy grandfather, settled in my ancestral lands in a Poland that's free, and prosperous and stretching from sea to sea!"

"And what - " he asked, "will you have done to help bring about such a blissful state of affairs, Sir?" Again, he had me. "Mr _______. Let me tell you what will become of you in 32 years' time," he said, jabbing a plump forefinger in my direction. "One of two things. You will either be enjoying a comfortable exile, making a living from the book trade or wine trade or whatever - or you will be like me - keeping the flame alive for the next generation - or to pass on to the generation after that - or even after that one - who one day will see a truly free and prosperous Poland."

What is it to love one's country. I pondered the question in silence, oblivious of the other passengers, who were increasingly excited by the prospect or nearing their journey's end.

The carriage drew into the forecourt outside Nancy's railway station. Count _______ made his way to the platform, the woman in black walking alongside him. I did not follow them, neither did I bid the Count farewell. Instead I silently slipped away, and found myself in another horse-drawn carriage headed back towards Prussia - and Poland.

A month later, snows swirling around the forest, our partisan detachment ambushed a Russian army wagon train headed towards Lublin. It was a trap. My men were surrounded by well-armed infantry. After a brief exchange of musket-fire, we could see there was no point of provoking a slaughter, so I gave the order to lay down our arms. I was arrested and sentenced to ten years in exile, and marched off in chains to Tobolsk, where today I write my testament, bearing witness to what had befallen me.

This time last year:
Działkaland

This time two years ago:
Czachówek Junction

This time three years ago:
One night only - Moni's school band